


He Leaned Against the Wall and Breathed

by hudson



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Inanimate Object Porn, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hudson/pseuds/hudson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael incorporates The Plan into every aspect of his life. Features slightly-psychotic!Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Leaned Against the Wall and Breathed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal on 7-21-2006

**Title:** He Leaned Against the Wall and Breathed  
 **Fandom:** Prison Break  
 **Characters:** Michael/The Plan. Yeah. **(genish?)**  
 **Prompt:** 087:Life  
 **Word Count:** 914  
 **Rating:** NC-17 gen! (Though really, it's more like Hard-R ;) )  
 **Summary:** Michael incorporates The Plan into every aspect of his life. Features slightly-psychotic!Michael.  
 **Disclaimer:** Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren’t me own Prison Break.  
 **A/N:** Birthday fic for thelana! She long ago [mentioned this idea](http://community.livejournal.com/pb_plotbunnies/6247.html?thread=93543#t93543), and brought it up once when we were talking about whether it's possible to write NC-17 gen - this might not be exactly NC-17 gen, but I went with the idea. Happy brithday, thelana! Hope this is somewhat close to what you'd had in mind.

-

He barely goes to work anymore. He knows that soon it’ll be phased out of his life entirely.

He leaves his apartment mostly to do research, gathering the stray bits of Plan to bring home and piece together. Two nights ago he was dragged away from his desk at work and out to a bar by people who used to be his friends, who’d refused to take no for an answer.

They were a part of his life once, important to him; people he cared about, who cared about him, which had meant something after so many years of Lincoln and only Lincoln.

Now there was just no room. They couldn’t offer him anything to put on his wall, and so they’d had to be sacrificed.

He’d spent the entire night at the bar trying to remember how many feet between the service room and the infirmary.

Now he stands before his wall – _The_ Wall – and thinks that this is it. This is his life now – forever, probably – no longer work and bars and somewhat superficial friends and occasionally Lincoln.

His life is maps, blueprints, trails of money and mobsters, newspaper clippings, pretty doctors, phone records, walls, fences, planes, distance, and _allthetime_ Lincoln.

It overwhelms him sometimes, too many pieces floating through his head, until he looks at The Wall, and the pieces start to fit together again, form The Plan.

He runs a hand over The Wall reverently, quietly touching parts of The Plan with an awe worthy of a human being. Nearly everything he has, every part of him, is wrapped around _this._

He brushes against The Plan again. Presses his palm flat over an article on metal erosion, runs fingertips over an old yearbook page _be the change you wish to see in the world,_ thumbs the corner of a picture of his brother. He leans forward to rest his head against The Wall and breathes in deeply, smelling old newspaper and _fear and freedom and future._

Michael lets his hand fall to his side for a moment, then brings it up to himself. He pushes it against his chest, then runs slowly downward, pressing just barely into his stomach to feel the slightest bit of pain.

He continues lower, brushing his hand over the front of his pants, gently at first as he goes below the belt and waistband, travels over the rough bite of the zipper, down to dig his nails into the dark fabric of his trousers, scratching nails across his leg.

His free hand rises to rest against The Wall, as the hand on his leg bunches for a moment in his pants before moving slowly back upwards. He strokes a few times over the front of his pants and drums his fingertips against The Wall.

Then he flicks open the button, unbuckles the belt, and pulls the zipper down, listening to the _rasp_ of metal teeth being pulled apart echo through the vast space of his apartment.

His hand dips into his open slacks, strokes again once over himself through the fabric of his underwear, then squeezes, and squeezes again just a little too hard. A small breeze brushes past him on its way through the apartment, reminding him for a moment that he left the terrace door open, but he turns his mind back to The Plan, staring up at it as he starts to grow warm.

Michael strokes again and begins to feel himself grow beneath his hand. He stares at an old picture, an overview shot of the prison, then pushes a finger through the opening of his boxers to run over his growing erection.

He scratches briefly, lightly, thrills at the flair of pain that travels up through his back and the warmth that follows it, as his gaze moves over a list of names tacked up beneath the bold words **FOX RIVER EMPLOYEES.**

He takes himself in hand then – briefly rubs his palm lower, then wraps fingers around himself as he continues to swell, and looks intensely at a photocopy of a thirty-year-old newspaper article.

Michael strokes several times, fully hard now, and dips lower every so often to run his fingers over sensitive skin while leaning heavily against his other hand. His palm is braced to hold his weight, and The Plan and The Wall hold him up.

He moves his hand faster, fingers twisting every so often around himself, thumb brushing over the head, and his eyes trail over several drawings of plumbing system. He follows the pipes as they twist and coil and stream across the pages tacked up on The Wall, traces over them in his mind while his hand moves furiously over his erection, and pictures the three-dimensional version of these pictures running beneath the floor of the prison.

Michael strokes and pulls with one hand, pushes and grasps with the other, and moves again to lean his forehead against The Wall as he pants open-mouthed into The Plan. His fist clenches in a crisp sheet of paper, and a thumbtack comes loose and digs into his fingers. The sharp pain makes his other hand squeeze and move even faster.

His head rests against a picture of his brother and the bold, surrounding words **CONVICTED – APPEAL – DENIED – MURDERER – DEATH.** He breathes the words in, thinks **FLIGHT – FIGHT – FREEDOM – LIVE** and comes with the scent of old newspaper and _fear and freedom and future_ filling his nose and the feel of crisp paper pressing against his hand.

 **-end-**


End file.
